


Love and Other Fatalities

by crescentmoonthemage



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Adorable, Crescent Writes A Fic, Enjolras Has Feelings, Enjolras Is Bad At Feelings, First Kiss, I don't love you, M/M, grantaire is a dork, they are all dorks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-10
Updated: 2014-08-10
Packaged: 2018-02-12 13:01:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2110836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crescentmoonthemage/pseuds/crescentmoonthemage
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I don't love you," Enjolras says. </p>
<p>He says that a lot.</p>
<p>Whether or not he means it is a different story entirely.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love and Other Fatalities

**Author's Note:**

> Since I adore E/R oneshots, here's my first contribition to the E/R fandom. I hope you enjoy. Kind of angsty, but I quite like it.

“I don’t love you,” Enjolras says, the first time they meet, and Grantaire knows it. Grantaire also knows that this man’s face will fill his dreams, the angelic beauty in his hair and his eyes, the strong line of his jaw, the disdainful curl of his lip. Grantaire wishes that he could see Enjolras every day, for just one encounter won’t help Grantaire when he sketches and paints. The light in those azure eyes could never truly be captured from just one meeting.

Although, looking back, it’s truly Grantaire’s fault. Enjolras was just being polite, asking if Grantaire would like to be a part of their group. Grantaire had laughed; in his mind, he already was. He knew everyone but Courfeyrac, Combeferre, and Enjolras, he had known them since middle school. He already was part of their group. They were the newcomers, truly. So he had scoffed. “Buy me dinner first, and then we’ll talk,” he had told Enjolras.

“Why would I buy you dinner? I don’t love you,” Enjolras had replied. Grantaire had only smiled.

 

\--

When Grantaire finally agrees to be ‘a part of their group,’ Enjolras laughs, but lets him anyway. “I harbor no love for drunks and cynics, so be careful.” Grantaire had smiled. “I haven’t been a drunk for as long as you think,” he said. Enjolras had raised an eyebrow. “But I’m sure you’ve been a cynic for far longer.” he said. “And like I said before, I don’t harbor any love for you. You are not Combeferre, whom I have known since I was six. If you annoy me, I will throw you out.”

“But you can’t keep me out.”

“Then I will throw you out again. And again. Until you change your ways, or you go away. Like I said, I don’t love you.”

It’s only been a few weeks, but Grantaire has already filled an entire sketchbook with his musings.

 

\--

It’s been nearly a year, and Grantaire was still enamored by the angel of a man. Over the course of their meetings, he had gotten to know his old friends better, and his new friends better as well. He had gotten drunk and talked of women many a night with Courfeyrac, and had discussed artistic science many times with Combeferre. But Enjolras still hated him. And Grantaire had found that he… somehow lived for that hate. He lived to be noticed, to be important, and for Enjolras to be the one noticing, well, that was something special. Unfortunately, when Grantaire was sober, he wasn’t good enough to be noticed. It was only when he got drunk and said utterly stupid things that Enjolras paid him any notice at all, and that was usually with a blinding stare, not the smile that Grantaire dreamed that he was worthy of getting.

One night, he gets spectacularly smashed and finds himself stumbling along the streets instead of calling a taxi. He thinks he’s on the way home, _knows_ he’s on the way home. When he pulls open the door to his apartment, (since when was the doorknob a handle?) and instead saw a neat entryway with a red carpet, he knows that he’s in the wrong place. He considers leaving, when someone comes out of a door. A very beautiful someone, with incredible hair in golden ringlets, the bluest eyes to ever be blue, and _oh shit, it’s Enjolras._

Enjolras laughs scornfully. “That it is,” he says, evidently annoyed beyond belief.

“Did I say that out loud?” asks Grantaire, trying for all the world to form a complete and intelligible sentence because the love of his life was standing in front of him.

“You’re drunk, Taire, get out.” says Enjolras, and for the first time, Grantaire notices that Enjolras didn’t have a shirt on. He allowed himself a small moment to stare at that expanse of beautiful skin before him before he speaks again. “I don’t know how to get home from here,” he manages. Enjolras sighed. “You can stay on my couch.” He gestures to the living room. “Blankets are in the cabinet above the cereal.”

Grantaire stumbles gratefully to the couch and sat down. “Thank you,” he says.

“Don’t thank me,” says Enjolras. “Don’t come here again unless I invite you. I don’t love you.”

It becomes a recurring theme in their lives.

 

\--

 

A few months later, a slightly drunken game of Seven Minutes in Heaven finds Grantaire locked in a closet with Enjolras. They stand awkwardly for a moment or so, Grantaire backing as far as he can into the closet to avoid that piercing gaze. “You know, they’re expecting us to do something.”

“They can expect away,” says Enjolras.

“DO SOMETHING!” shouts Courfeyrac from outside.

Enjolras sighs, rolling his eyes. “I don’t love you,” he says, before pecking Grantaire on the cheek.

When the door opens, Enjolras promptly walked out, grabbed his coat, and left the party. Grantaire was left standing in the closet door touching his cheek. He was sure he was flushed enough to start the rumors flying.

 

 

\--

The next time they saw each other, nearly a month after The Great Closet Incident, Grantaire felt courageous. He’d had half a fifth of Scotch, Enjolras wasn’t as angry as he usually was, and it was a Friday. Everyone was planning to go bowling at the late-night bowl. Grantaire toys with the idea quite a while before he decides that this is as good a time as ever. When Enjolras walks past his table to grab his coat, Grantaire grabbed his shoulder, turned him around, and kissed him. Enjolras pushes him away an instant later, roughly shoving him into a table. Grantaire crashed to the ground. “Why would I kiss you?” Enjolras spits. “I don’t love you. And your breath smells like shit.”

Grantaire, needless to say, didn’t go bowling that night. He stays, the only customer in the darkened café, and drinks until he pukes.

 

\--

 

“I don’t love you,” Enjolras says, when he pushed Grantaire against an alley wall. Before Grantaire even knows what’s going on, Enjolras had pressed his lips to Grantaire’s, rough, filled with need. “I can’t love you,” he whispers, pulling away for a fraction of an instant. Grantaire crashes his lips into Enjolras’s again, in dire need of human contact. Everything was just so good… it couldn’t end.

“You’re despicable,” he growls, pulling away once more, and Grantaire knows he means it, but he doesn’t care. Enjolras kisses him once more, roughly biting his neck.

Grantaire feels as if he could fly.

 

\--

 

“I’m regretting this already,” grumbles  Enjolras. The covers were tangled, and one of Enjolras’s hands rested on Grantaire’s bare chest. “Why?” asks Grantaire.

“Because I don’t love you. I hate you, really. I can’t stand you anywhere but in my bed.”

This makes Grantaire laugh.

 

 

\--

 

“Teach me how to love you,” whispers Enjolras, as they’re lying under the stars. “It’s easy,” says Grantaire, entwining their hands. “We’re on our first date, and we already know that you’re the man in this relationship. I’ll just do cute things, and you’ll learn. I promise that you’ll get the hang of it.”

“I’ve never loved anyone before,” says Enjolras sincerely. “Especially not a drunken cynic who doesn’t believe in anything.”

“I believe in you.”

“That doesn’t count,” says Enjolras, and kisses his nose.

 

\--

Enjolras is standing in front of a window when Grantaire awakens. He takes a moment to take in the scene, before a deep set fear awakens. He stands up abruptly, and Enjolras notices him instantly. The ten gunman facing away from him don’t, though.

“Long live the Republic,” Grantaire says, the last of the drunken haze fading away. “I’m one of them.”

He moves through the gunman to stand next to Enjolras, the one thing in the world that he loves. He brushes a curl behind his lover’s ear. “Do you permit it?” he asks softly. Enjolras takes his hand, a small smile on his lips. “I wish I could have loved you,” he whispers.

 

\--

 

When Grantaire awakens, he walks outside. He knows exactly how to get outside, because it’s Enjolras’s apartment. He doesn’t question the fact that he’s there. Perhaps he had actually been more worthy than he thought after all.

All of his friends are outside, and instantly Grantaire knows that they’ve died. He smiles at them, and then hears a small noise behind him. Turning around, there’s Enjolras, a strange light in his blue eyes. He hears Courfeyrac exclaim behind him. “Oh come on, even when we’re dead, do you not know how to _get a room_?”

Enjolras smiles. He takes Grantaire’s hands. “I don’t love you,” he says.

He can hear Jehan cough something that sounds suspiciously like “bullshit” from behind him. Grantaire laughs and Enjolras looks sheepish. “Okay, you got me on that one. Maybe I do love you.”

“I know,” says Grantaire, and he does.


End file.
